The Midwife
AO3 :: Previously
IX
I lay awake all night, wrestling with the gnawing doubt and the longing in my heart. I tossed and turned, and gave up sleep around dawn. I also gave up any pretense that I did not want Jamie, very much. His smile, his demeanor, everything was so different from other men I knew. There was kindness, there was warmth, and most surprisingly perhaps—a genuine interest to know me, my thoughts, my past, who Claire was.
No, Mother Hildegarde was right. I could not make a happy nun. Would Maman wish me to pursue my feelings, to accept this attraction, to hope, to love? My heart beat queerly at this unexpected consideration. Did I love James Fraser? Could he love me?
I watched the sun rise through the bars of my cell window. It touched the green herbs in the garden; everything else was dying in the autumn chill, waiting for spring to be reborn. But I did not have to wait that long. In the dim, I dressed, a new resolve within me, and I yielded to the sudden joy that burst in my chest, and I accepted this feeling in my heart with all my soul.
Autumn sunshine also steeped the hospital corridors, crisp air imbuing the space with cleanliness. I took a deep breath as I walked into the sick bay. I was determined to apologize, subtly let him know that I shared his regard, and see where that led us. I turned to corner towards Jamie’s pallet.
Malva was there again.
She was helping him sit up, and I saw him wince as her motions accidentally pulled at the stitches I had set the day before. Malva wasn’t a poor healer, but she tended to be forgetful or careless. I wasn’t having it, not where Jamie was concerned.
“Mademoiselle Christie!” I called out, fixing a fake cheery smile on my face. “Sister Minèrve has need of you. She is in the apothecary stores.” The room where we dried, set, and prepared various herbal remedies was located on the other side of l’hôpital, across the small graveyard, through the convent. It would probably take her ten minutes to get there, and then some more to return. The lie was inconsequential; I knew the sister could always use help preparing cures and tonics.
Malva stood, red creeping up her neck and face. “Why can you not assist Sister Minèrve? I will attend to Jamie.”
I spared a glance at the man in question; he looked at me in confusion at my sudden turnabout. I gave him a brief smile, letting it touch my eyes, and Jamie visibly relaxed.
“Monsieur Fraser,” I emphasized his formal title, “has had enough of your attentions, I believe. Please do as you are told, child. And wash your hands. This is not the Hôtel Dieu.” Flushed with anger at my dismissal, she stomped off towards the door. I did not care for her belligerent attitude, and made a mental note to speak to Madame Bonheur. I did not wish to get her in trouble, but perhaps a serious talking-to would help her adjust—and acknowledge my seniority.
After Malva was gone, I sat beside him, finally able to look Jamie in the eye instead of having him lie down. “I did not mean to be so rude. Yesterday. When you, um—” I flailed my hands uselessly.
Jamie reached out and took one of my hands in his own, steady and reassuring. “Mistress, dinna worry. I ken ye are otherwise occupied, and I am not yer only responsibility, and it was terribly selfish to demand so much of yer time.”
“Oh, not at all!” I blushed. “I… very much enjoy your company. Please, call me Claire. Or Sassenach. I know you were trying to be friendly, and I… would like to be your friend.” Perhaps more.
“Alright, lass,” Jamie smiled. “A fresh start. Do ye think we have time before Miss Christie returns?” A teasing twinkle in his eye told me he knew perfectly well I had sent her away on purpose. The use of Miss Christie instead of her name was meant to indicate he was not so close to her as I had feared.
“We have time to talk,” I agreed, settling in as comfortably as I could on the hard stone floor. “Let us begin with… well, I would like to know about your family.”
Jamie’s eyes lit up. “How many generations back?”
* * *
Malva did not return that day. Or the next. She did not approach Jamie or me anymore; I knew she was actively avoiding me, particularly after Madame Bonheur lectured her sternly. I saw her occasionally, nodded to her when our paths crossed, but she turned away from any gesture I made. The maîtresses sage femme wisely kept us apart on a rotating timetable.
Jamie continued to heal quickly; I removed his stitches a week later, after we had spent inordinate amounts of time talking. We discussed anything and everything, from his studies and my apprenticeship to our families, our dreams, our lives.
“It was la grippe,” I told him quietly. “Influenza. It took her fast.” A tear slipped unheeded down my cheek. Jamie dashed it away.
“Ye could not have known, a leannan. I’m sure ye did everything ye could for her.”
“Will it always feel this way, do you think?” I asked him. “I am fine most of the time, and out of nowhere I remember Maman, and it hits my chest like I’ve been struck. It feels like I can’t breathe, like I’ve just lost her…”
“Not always, Sassenach.” Jamie offered me a gentle smile, the ones I treasured best. “We will always miss those we loved and lost. To mourn her is to respect her memory. But grief is not a place to stay, and when ye least expect it, the pain in yer memories will only be love.”
“Love.” I looked down at my hands, suddenly shy and self-conscious. He moved a bit closer and took my hand in his.
“Sometimes ‘tis easier when we touch, no?” Jamie said. We sat unmoving until the awkwardness passed. “Sassenach, might I ask ye something?”
“Of course, Jamie.”
He hesitated. “Is this… usual? What it is between us?”
I shifted. “I couldn’t say Jamie. I cannot pretend to have had vast experience with men—”
“Och, lass, I dinna mean to imply ye did!” He looked alarmed.
“Indeed!” I laughed. “I’ve never been… close to anyone, like I am with you. But if I had to say… then no, Jamie. This feels different. Special.”
“Close, ye say.” Jamie squeezed my hand before letting go and tilting my chin up with a finger. His eyes burned into mine, dropping briefly to my mouth and back. “This close?”
My breath hitched, heart racing. His finger traced my lower lip lightly, seeking permission. I closed my eyes in acquiescence. Jamie’s lips were soft, tentative, pressing gently and unhurried. Warmth bloomed inside me, love and hope and joy triumphant.
We broke apart, and Jamie’s hand caressed my face, as I had once done to him. My amber eyes searched his fathomless blue and found nothing but truth and tenderness. My previous bashfulness was gone, and all I wanted was to taste him again.
“Claire, am I the first man to kiss ye?” Jamie asked.
I bowed my head, an answer in and of itself.
He leaned close once more, brushing his lips against mine in a whisper: “I want to be the last.”
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FIC: Spice
Summary: The problem with secrets is they only stay secrets when no one knows them.
Warnings: This chapter is Rated M for mature.
Notes: Even more from @cheapbourbon ‘s village AU.
The story so far:
Crimson
Yellow
Blue
Blush
Sallow
Russet
Also on AO3
~~*~~
The world went on without a care for Rus’s eagerness for Wednesdays. Life in the village was unchanged, with a few small deviations.
For one, Rus did their weekly shopping on Monday morning, getting up early to go to the store the moment the shopkeeper opened. Only farmers and their kin were up at this hour, alongside the shopkeeper’s wife, who was able to smile politely at Rus and meet his eyes, as her husband no longer did. Much as Rus would have preferred sleeping a little longer, it was well worth it to return home unscathed, with Blue coming down the stairs as he came back in the door.
His brother didn’t question Rus’s new schedule, but there was a shadow in his eye lights, and a sadness. Likely blaming himself for not protecting Rus and that was ridiculous. He wasn’t a child, he could handle his own problems, and the fact that Blue was allowing him to said that he thought so as well.
It did not stop him from taking advantage of Blue owing the Dog family a favor. With very little coaxing, he persuaded Blue into making a batch of his spice cookies for them as a thank you. No one in the village made them better than his brother and Dogaressa had a passel of children; surely none of them would turn their wet little noses up at a treat.
Rus kept his hood up walking down the path to their home on the outskirts of town. Autumn was in full force and the wind was chilly this morning. All his venturing into the woods did have one pure benefit, Rus thought ruefully. Not that long ago, walking this far would have left him winded and today he only felt pleasantly tired, and quite able to walk back home when he was ready.
The farmhouse was plainly whitewashed, with a wagon in the midst of repair on the side of the yard. Hardy flowers were still blooming, bright yellows poking their faces out of ancient barrels turned to planters, and the sprawling fields around the house had haycocks ready for the winter dotting them. The curtained windows were glass, a testament to Dogamy’s success as a farmer. It was a cheery, welcoming home and Rus hadn’t a qualm about knocking lightly on the front door.
A curtain twitched, giving him a glimpse of an eye and part of a muzzle, then it opened to reveal Emma, the eldest of the Dog children.
“Rus!” Emma exclaimed with genuine pleasure. “What brings you all the way out here?”
He and Emma weren’t age mates, Rus being a handful of years older. He’d babysat for her a time or two when she had been a child, but she’d come of age this summer and was the very picture of a lovely farmer’s daughter. Her delight at seeing him, something none of his actual age mates ever seemed to offer, made Rus smile in return.
“your mother did me a good turn last week when I was ill,” Rus explained, holding up a package, “and my brother always told me that a favor given should have a favor returned before bad luck takes hold.”
“Oh, that’s nonsense!” Emma scoffed, laughing, “Come in, come in! Mamma is in town running the stand and Papa is out in the fields with the boys. It’s only me and Micah home, but come in for tea, won’t you?”
“i shouldn’t—” he started to demur, but Emma had her mother’s determination and her strength, hauling him and his light burden inside. In no time, Rus found himself seated at a well-scrubbed table, a cup and saucer in front of him waiting as the water heated.
The kitchen was filled with a sort of cheerful clutter, a vase of flowers alongside baskets of eggs and apples scattered about and there was a large pot steaming on the back of the stove, likely dinner for the many hungry bellies that would be back this afternoon.
Micah, the youngest pup, the one whom Blue had saved when he was born breech, was still on all fours, crawling happily at their feet. He took hold of the edge of Rus’s cloak and managed to haul himself upright, beaming proudly as Emma exclaimed over his triumph. His crow of glee turned to pleading as he held both arms up to Rus, and soon he was settled into Rus’s lap, sucking on a furry thumb and drowsing while Emma poured tea.
“I haven’t seen you in an age, Rus,” Emma said, stirring sugar into her own cup. “How is your brother?”
“as well as ever.” Rus busied himself opening the package, since cookies were excellent with tea. “busy, lately, there’s a grippe going around and fall always seems to be a busy time for little ones choosing to be born. he keeps on his feet, to be sure.”
“That’s good to hear,” Emma gave him a sad smile. “I do think of him from time to time. It was a terrible thing that happened, leaving him a widower so young.”
“it was,” Rus said, low, with a pang of his own grief, and they both made signs to protect the soul of a loved one lost.
“Well!” Emma sighed out, “I have to admit, I had a motive for getting you inside for a chat.” Emma’s ears twitched down, her hands curled tightly around her cup. “I overheard my parents talking about Elder Smith and you the other night.”
A chill went through Rus despite the warmth of the tea. “you did?”
She nodded. “A bit of, but papa seemed quite angry about it. Said it was a disgrace, in broad daylight and everything. Rus, what happened?”
Even Blue didn’t know the entirety of the story and yet, Emma’s eyes were kind, no hint of a gossipmonger within them. Hesitantly, Rus told her the story, haltingly at first and then everything came spilling out in a rush. By the end, Emma had a hand over her muzzle, shock and anger of her own visible on her pretty face.
“No wonder father was angry!” she whispered. “And the shopkeeper, he didn’t say a thing?”
“not a word,” Rus said unhappily. His spoon clinked gently as he stirred his cooling tea and in the crook of his arm, the baby stirred but didn’t wake. “elder smith has influence and no little wealth. he was afraid to, i expect.”
“A coward, more like,” Emma said spiritedly, then she shook her head. Misery colored her expression. “Oh, Rus. I have a secret of my own, if you promise to keep it.”
“of course,” Rus told her, and he would. Confessing to her made the burden of knowledge seem lighter on his soul; surely, he could offer the same.
Emma chewed on her lower lip, blinking too hard, “Elder Smith made a similar offer to me not a week ago, when I was working at the stand alone. Asked if I wouldn’t consider coming to his home from time to time to do a little housework.”
Rus gasped and made a warding sign against evil, because surely that was evil, far more than any he had found in the woods. He, at least, was getting a little long in the tooth for marriage. It might be explainable that an offer for some sort of future could be made, no matter how tawdry. But Emma was at the cusp of adulthood, she’d only taken to wearing the long, saffron cloak that bespoke of it this past month. Few parents would let daughters as young as Emma leave their homes for matrimony. Then again, he wasn’t offering for her hand so much as other parts of her. “emma, i can hardly imagine him being so bold, and to you of all people! did you tell your father?
She shook her head. “He would be ever so furious about it. He was quite angry over him speaking to you that way. And as you say, you can hardly believe it, who else would? All he offered was a chance for me to do a bit of housekeeping, truly, but his eyes…” Emma shivered, her own eyes downcast. “I thought it best not to say anything.”
A difficult choice, to be sure. Dogamy was a good farmer but he was only farmer, and he had a family to care for. Who knew what evils Elder Smith could wrought if he chose? Rus shook his head, unhappily, “perhaps you’re right. do be careful, emma, i…your father said he doesn’t like the smell of him.” Rus tapped his own face and his lack of a nose of his own. “i may not have the muzzle of your linage, but i don’t trust him, either. you’ll tell him if something else happens, won’t you?”
She nodded, sipping her tea, only to wince, “Oh, it’s gone cold. Let me make another pot.” With a thick cloth in hand, she took the kettle from the fire and poured hot water back into the teapot. “At least you might not have to worry about it much longer,” Emma said, and gave Rus a surprisingly sly look, smiling teasingly. “I overheard mamma say you may have a gentleman now. Perhaps he might settle the issue for you?”
Rus swallowed, inadvertently tightening his arms around the baby until he made a sleepy noise of complaint. He hardly remembered talking to Dogaressa that night, what had he said? “i…that is…”
“You needn’t tell me your secrets,” she said pertly and wagged a finger at him. “But I wouldn’t say a word to a soul, you goose!”
“maybe there’s a gentleman,” Rus mumbled. Heat was warming in his cheekbones, not entirely from embarrassment as thoughts of Edge filled his mind. Of last week, of the things they’d done.
“Oh?” Emma arched a brow at him, plucking a cookie from the plate and nibbling. “Mightn’t there be wedding bells in your future, then?”
“no,” Rus said quietly. He couldn’t even pretend that lie. “i think not. we’re only…well…that is…”
Emma looked gleefully scandalized, “Rus!”
“i’m not very marriageable, emma, and that’s a fact,” Rus sighed.
“Only because there’s so many fools in the village,” Emma said stubbornly, and Rus smiled weakly, warmed at her defense in spite of himself. “And he’s a fool if he’s only looking for milk without wishing to buy the cow!”
“emma!” Rus hissed.
She waved him off, “Oh, don’t be silly, I was raised on a farm!”
“anyway, it’s not like that,” Rus muttered. “it’s…we couldn’t possibly…but…”
She patted his arm, gently, “Do be careful, Rus? And come see me again, soon, won’t you? We’ll talk more, shan’t we, and I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.”
“i will,” Rus said gratefully, and their chatter turned to lighter subjects as they finished their tea.
~~*~~
The next day as he walked through the wood, Rus considered what he was doing, this secret that he couldn’t speak of, not even to Emma. Though it had been a wonder to spend time chatting with someone who wasn’t his brother.
Emma was right, though, he did need to be careful, and not simply for his own sake. There was his brother to think of, and Edge, who was unaware of the danger he might be putting himself in by meeting Rus. Perhaps he should think about this more, pray for answers? Maybe even reconsider these meetings before they could take a poor turn.
Any thoughts of that evaporated as the clearing came into sight and with it, Edge. He was crouched by the fire, his cloak drawn back so the long lines of his legs were visible, long boots laced to the knee, and Rus swallowed thickly. Just looking at him was stirring, the forbidden crimson of his cloak no longer inspired fear but rather, something closer to longing.
Edge glanced up as Rus came closer and Rus raised a hand in greeting, “hello!”
He wasn’t expecting Edge’s sudden frown, nor the way he stalked over, taking Rus’s hand in his own. Something in his gaze was almost accusing and Rus could only blink at him in confusion, looking down at their clasped hands, his bones white against Edge’s gloved ones and—
“oh!” Rus exclaimed, “the gloves, of course. it’s a little warm for them yet, but then you’ve been wearing gloves every time we’ve met. all right, nanny, if you insist.” Rus drew them out and tugged them on, the buttery soft leather a formerly unknown pleasure against his bones. He waggled his fingers at Edge teasingly. “happy?”
It seemed so; Edge drew his hand up and kissed the mark at his wrist fondly as Rus watched in bemusement. Perhaps it was something of a traditional greeting for his people? If so, Edge was making up for them lacking it now, following the gloves up and lingering where the cuff met his shirtsleeve. Oh, he’d never known the bones of his arm could be so sensitive, shivering at the delicate gust of breath against them.
How could he have considered staying away from this, Rus thought hazily, letting Edge draw him closer to the fire. Perhaps this was a sin, but it was one for which he’d gladly beg forgiveness.
Edge sank to the ground, pulling Rus with him to sit between his splayed legs, and Rus tipped his head back, hoping for a kiss.
One that was eagerly granted, and Rus could only moan, settling his trembling hands on Edge’s knees and this time when Edge’s fingers plucked at his shirt buttons, Rus only sighed against his mouth and let him, whimpering as gloved fingertips stroked his ribs, following them back to where they met his spine.
“oh,” Rus sighed. Edge broke the kiss, his mouth hot and gentle against Rus’s cervical vertebra. Coaxing him wordlessly to tip his head to the side, granting him access to sensitive bone and cartilage. Hands skirting his waistband found the fastenings of his trousers and Rus tried not to flinch as they were unbuttoned, the placket opened and this time his hands didn’t simply venture within. They tugged, pulling his trousers lower and Rus closed his sockets tightly, lifting his hips and letting Edge pull them free.
Leaves rustled and crackled beneath him as he was turned and lowered to the ground, gentle hands ridding him of his shoes and trousers. He shivered, even with the warmth of the fire, as cool air touched his bones and then Edge was kneeling over him, his eye lights bright, moving avidly over Rus.
Blushing, Rus thoughtlessly tried to cover himself with his hands; no one had ever seen him like this, not only bare but with arousal thrumming hotly, visibly, at the crux of his legs. Only to have his hands caught, a kiss pressed again to the symbols on his wrist.
“No, no, no,” Edge murmured against the soft leather. “K’uhah. Rus, k’uhah.”
“i…i don’t…know what that means,” Rus stuttered out, but the reverence with which it was said made a low thrum pulse in his soul. He let his hands go lax, falling to the ground, and Edge slipped lower, his mouth hot against Rus’s ribs, tongue dipping lightly against his spine, his pelvis and then—
Rus’s shocked wail was cut off by his own hands, muffled into his gloves as Edge pressed his face between his legs and he stared sightlessly at the sky, sockets wide. His brother hadn’t mentioned any of this!
But how could he, how could he have ever explained the unbearable pleasure of a tongue moving against him, the soft, satisfied noises that Edge made as he lapped tenderly. The sharp, hungry glow of his eye lights as he looked up at Rus, and Rus jerked helplessly, fingers scrabbling uselessly at Edge’s skull as he pressed a finger inside him. The sweet, wet touch of his tongue was wonderful and wrong, nothing should feel so terribly good, and Rus could only squirm and whimper, easily held.
Dimly, Rus could feel sweat trickling down his face, stinging in his sockets, but it was as distant as a dream. Edge’s breath was hot against him, following the path of his tongue and heating the wetness it left behind, and his fingers were clever, matching its rhythm. Shuddering, Rus curled up, pleading in low, broken words but he was beyond caring that Edge couldn’t understand him. The pleas of his body were plain, and he needed…he needed, arching into the relentless pressure of Edge’s hands and mouth.
Another thin cry escaped him, torn loose, and with Edge’s name falling raggedly from his throat, Rus let the pleasure overwhelm him. It seemed endless, wracking him, cresting to nearly unbearable until Edge finally drew away, his hands soothing down Rus’s femurs.
Rus could only blink, dazedly, as Edge shifted up to settle between his legs. He was heavy, the weight of his body more than Rus had expected, and his cloak settled over them both, rough fabric against the bareness of Rus’s bones. A shift of his hips dragged the clothed shape of his arousal against Rus’s pelvis, making him gasp, his hands scrabbling at Edge’s shoulders.
Edge made a sound, close to a growl, leaning down to press his mouth to Rus’s, smearing wetness and oh, that faint sweetness was himself, wasn’t it, this was going so quickly, too quickly, he could feel Edge reaching between them, shifting to lower his leggings and--
“oh!” Rus gasped aloud, looking down and gaping as Edge took himself in hand. That hadn’t felt quite so large in his own hand last week, he couldn’t imagine such a thing fitting inside him, he knew it should, he…he knew it…and…
A trickle of fear was starting to thread its way through his desire, he wanted this, he didn’t want it. The tip grazed his pelvis and they both jerked, Edge with a groan and Rus with a whimper. He turned his face away, squeezing his sockets closed and the warmth of stinging tears only barely registered.
“Rus,” low and gentle, whispered to him, and the pressure of Edge’s weight eased. Startled, Rus looked up and Edge cupped his face in a hand, his thumb stroking over his cheek bone. Again, so softly, his own name, “Rus.”
Fear receded as Edge didn’t move, only stayed half-crouched over him. Despite his obvious need, despite the fact that Rus was so terribly exposed and available, he only stroked Rus’s cheek, murmuring softly to him, his name and words that Rus could only wonder at their meaning.
“let…let me?” Rus whispered. Hesitantly, Rus reached down, his hands hovering, then cupping the heavy length. A sharp huff of breath escaped Edge in a groan and together, they stroked him.
Sweat was trailing damply down Edge’s skull, tension rising as his hips followed the clumsy rhythm of Rus’s hands. With his tunic rucked up and his leggings only barely lowered, he was a mess of disarrayed clothing and the heat in his eye lights melted into a vague daze as hot wetness fell between them, pattering softly on Rus’s pelvis. Ducking his head, Edge kissed him harshly, making a sound against Rus’s mouth that might have been a groan, might have been words, or perhaps a mixture of both. His weight was heavy against Rus again as he sagged down but this time Rus welcomed it, wrapping his arms around Edge and pulling him in close.
There was nothing but the faint rustle of leaves and the crackle of the fire, their breath mingling as it slowed.
With a groan, Edge shifted up on his elbows, looking down at Rus. His eye lights were softer, the deep crimson seemed lighter in the autumn sunshine.
“hello?” Rus offered, weakly, and Edge made a chuffing sound of laughter.
“Hello,” he replied, nuzzling a kiss against Rus’s teeth. “Hello, Rus. K’uhah.”
“i do wish i knew what that meant,” Rus sighed. “it’s certainly a pretty sounding word.”
Edge only tipped his head to the side curiously.
“pretty,” Rus tried, “k’uhah, pretty.”
“Pretty,” Edge repeated agreeably. “Pretty k’uhah. Pretty Rus.”
It made a blush rise in his cheekbones even though Edge couldn’t have known what he was saying. Cool air was starting to seep beneath Edge’s cloak, tickling at the places Rus was bare, and he squirmed until Edge reluctantly moved, letting him stand.
Maddeningly, he insisted on helping Rus with his trousers, which consisted more of him trailing his fingers over Rus’s femurs, down to stroke his ankles and feet as Rus struggled to put on his shoes around his tricksy fingers.
“you’re terrible,” Rus told him with fond exasperation.
“Terrible,” Edge agreed eagerly, stealing another kiss.
The light was already taking on tones of dusk, Rus saw unhappily. The shorter days were no friend of his, and with a last kiss, Rus tried to draw away. “i need to be getting home, i’m afraid.”
Only to be stilled by a hand on his arm and Rus blinked, perplexed, as Edge drew him down to sit next to him. For once, he kept his hands to himself, instead holding up a single leaf as he slowly said a word. When Rus only looked at him, confused, Edge twirled the leaf in his fingers and said it again, gesturing at Rus.
“leaf?” Rus asked, puzzled and Edge brightened, nodding.
“Leaf,” Edge agreed. He dropped it and they both watched as it fluttered to the ground. Patiently, he picked it up and dropped it again, mimicking its path with his hand. And again, fluttering his fingers behind it as it fell.
“um. down? fall? falling leaf?” Rus tried, and Edge nodded, satisfied.
“Leaf fall,” Edge looked pleased. “Rus and Edge, home, leaf fall.”
“home. leaf fall. we should be home as the leaves fall?” Rus muttered. Oh, he’d never cared for puzzles the way his brother did. He sorted through it, trying to understand, then it clicked. “oh! oh, yes, we should be home during the winter, yes.” He smiled, happy that he’d understood. “rus and Edge, home for the leaf fall.”
It made an ache rise in his chest to think of it, but he could hardly wade through snow drifts to see Edge. Terrible as it was to consider, Edge was right, they would have to be home for the ‘leaf fall’, as he put it.
Just imaging it made him tired. Back home for the entirety of winter, back to spend all his days in the village. Without Edge.
Rus shook away his growing melancholy. They had a little more time, the first few snowfalls were usually mild as well, they could still…he could still…
Gently, Edge drew his hand up and pressed a kiss to the symbol on Rus’s wrist, sighing, then he rested his cheek there a moment, breathing in. Scenting him, Rus realized, the way he so often did. As though Rus smelled of something wonderful, as if he was something wonderful.
How was he supposed to give this up?
The fading light was a reminder, a warning. He needed to leave. Pained, he carefully drew free, Edge’s hand holding his own until the very last touch of their fingertips.
“i’ll come back,” Rus promised softly. “next week, i’ll be back.”
“Leaf fall, home,” Edge said, and though he was smiling, Rus winced.
“Well, we’ll deal with that when it comes,” Rus whispered. A little desperately, he pressed a last kiss to Edge’s teeth and then spun away, walking quickly before he could be tempted to linger any longer. His gloves were soft and comfortingly warm in the growing chill and it was with true regret that he had to peel them off as the boundary of the woods came into sight.
The cold was a reminder of the coming winter, more so even than the leaves crunching beneath his feet, and Rus shivered, pushing the thought away. There was still a little time yet with Edge and he was going to take every scrap that he could.
tbc
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Bright Spots
November and I had more than just our differences.
(S)he seemed intent on making life difficult left, right and centre.
I was struggling not to let students’ misbehaviour affect me. I got the grippe québécoise badly and had to retreat to bed. I wound up keeping an unprecedented and unwelcome secret. I was troubled by matters of the heart. Et cetera.
At the time I thought December would never come around. Although of course eventually it did.
And I like remembering that bright spots almost always find a way of tucking themselves into darker days.
Breaking away to Quebec City — or just Québec in French, which can be confusing if you get the gender wrong because le denotes the province and la the city — for a little while helped me gain perspective.
I thought I’d better finally get round to posting a few images and impressions of Québec as it was then before I go back for the carnaval — which is bound to be wintry and wonderful beyond words — in a week’s time.
So here they are.
All the language assistants — English, German, Mexican and Canadian — had been give time off work to come to Québec for an obligatory session de formation.
The Orléans Express got us to Québec with time to spare before there were any actual commitments. So after checking in we went for a walk.
A golden patch of evening light was moving its way around the square. Every few minutes it would leave one surface behind and illuminate a new one.
Because of its older status, Québec wears an urban geography that is genuinely nonuniform.
In the grand scheme of life, 1911 is pretty recent. But I felt strangely reassured by the rust and signs of deterioration which give this building a past.
It didn’t rain even a little bit, despite what the dense grey cloud suggests.
The occasional cross is a reminder of how Catholicism used to be a defining feature of Québec. I suppose in some ways it still is by association.
I was and am still deeply saddened and troubled by the recent shooting at one of the city’s mosques. It scares me that events like this are becoming commonplace and starting to lose their shock factor as a result.
Because there are only two tones on the map you have to fill in the colour blanks for yourself.
It takes a second or two to spot the real leaf that’s camouflaged.
After dark, we went skating in a square. I normally get on alright if someone puts me on a rink, but I nearly killed my ankles wearing figure skates with no joint support whatsoever.
I saw one tiny piece of graffiti, just words.
You can me paint me / I will still be there
It could mean anything at all. Or nothing in the slightest.
The last of the autumn days really was upon us.
Only a scattering of leaves remained on the trees.
Before the weekend, daylight hours were mainly spent concentrating in workshops.
On the second night, we went to a cabane à sucre on the Île d’Orléans where it was possible to incorporate maple syrup into every single one of the three courses.
At the weekend, I slept across the river in Lévis.
It takes about ten minutes by ferry to get there. You get a wonderful overview of Québec thrown into the bargain.
Petit Champlain is the oldest shopping district in North America.
Ironically I didn’t go into any shops.
I think the neighbourhood looks timeless when in black and white. Except perhaps for the Converse-style sneakers that stand out bottom centre.
Since Montmorency Falls Park is within reach, we decided it was definitely worth taking time out of Saturday for.
Hexagonal — or possibly heptagonal or octagonal, hard to tell — lookouts with green-blue rooves line the sides of the slope.
The falls’ claim to fame is that at 83 metres they are 30 metres taller than Niagara Falls.
Photographing feet seems to be turning into a slight obsession of mine.
His perfectly shined shoe was attached to the leaf for the duration of the ride. I didn’t want them to have to part ways.
Château Frontenac is arguably Québec’s most iconic and easily identifiable attraction.
I’m pretty sure only hotel guests are meant to go up to the top floors, but we took the elevator anyway and tried to blend in.
I think the Château is a book you have to judge by its cover.
The exterior is just more impressive than the ordinary interior.
Not a patch on Cardiac Hill, I know, but having some changes in relief for once felt good.
Sunday was spent in and out of museums, one of which is adjacent to the Cathedral-Basilica of Notre-Dame de Québec.
The Musée de l’Amérique francophone is really worth a visit. It contains a lot about the history of and traces left by colonisation.
One knock-on effect of colonisation was increased movement of people. Thoughts from travellers of the period are scattered throughout the exhibition.
Si on est marqué pour aller quelque part, on ne peut pas empêcher la vie de nous y emmener.
I’m not sure I agree with this idea that if we are being pulled in one direction we have no choice but to follow through.
I armed myself with coffee and salted caramel cheesecake in Baguette & Chocolat and left Québec sufficiently full of goodness.
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